Wear the Grudge Like a Crown
by Stephantom
Summary: A piece about the night Tom Marvolo Riddle travelled to Hangleton and murdered his father. What thoughts were going through his mind? What were his motives? Originally titled The Turning Point
1. to Control

_Wear the grudge like a crown_

_Desperate to control_

_Unable to forgive_

_And you're sinking deeper_  
- Tool, "The Grudge"

A young man crouched in the bushes, the rain dripping off the ends of his hair. He stared intently at the great, white house nearby on a hill. He could see the lights on in the rooms, see blurry shapes of people moving about inside, sitting down at a table. The boy crept forward out of the bushes carefully, then straightened to his full height. He was a tall, thin young man in his teens, with a pale, lean face, and eerily clear blue eyes set beneath two dark, intelligent brows; wet, raven hair fell across his forehead. He stood for a moment, at the edge of the yard, throwing an uneasy glance behind him, then looked up at the ominous trees towering above him, groaning in the wind. _This is it, Tom_.

For the past five years, he had imagined what this night would be like, though perhaps he had never actually thought it would happen, thought that he would actually do it. And yet, here he was. He had come to the turning point in his life. He was no longer a child; he was leaving the orphanage behind and he would never go back there again. He had made his new home Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardy, and they welcomed him with open arms. Tom had just graduated from his fourth year there; he had had more O.W.L's than any other student in the school, indeed, than any other student in the school had had for many years. Next year he would surely be made a prefect, and after that Head Boy. Everyone loved him there; even some of the Gryffindor students were friendly with him. The teachers had beamed at him, as he smiled humbly at the 100 points awarded to Slytherin House for his work in school. He had proved them all wrong. He knew what they had thought - oh, the poor, helpless little orphan. Oh, the worthless, half-blood trash. Never going to amount to anything. Well they were wrong.

Tom forced a smile, trying as ever to be happy with what he had accomplished, but it barely lasted a second before another thought rose, a niggling, annoying thought in the back of his mind, hovering like a mosquito. That Transfiguration teacher... That Dumbledore. He still doubted him. Why? Why could he not gain that man's trust like everyone else? Tom clenched his teeth. It didn't matter. Who cared about some stupid muggle-lover? Tom knew how things would wind up in the end - he couldn't wait to see who how Dumbledore would feel once the tables had turned. It would just take time. And Tom had plenty of patience...

Tom took a deep breath, stood up and walked forward, wild determination glinting in his crystal eyes. At the doorstep, he hesitated once more, eyeing the sign on the door that read, _Riddle House._ Tom narrowed his eyes. He stopped there on the steps, closed his eyes, and let the memories wash over him, slowly blowing to life the embers of his rage which he carried with him always.

He remembered the tiny little boy, seven years old, sitting on his poor excuse for a bed, dressed in rags, hugging his knees to his chest and staring out the windows, trying not to cry, wondering who and where his parents were. He remembered the other children, some of them somehow making friends and seemingly happy, others like him, wandering about the facility, alone and miserable. And then there were the bigger ones who would tease them and yell at them and hit them. And the adults who did nothing to stop them, and said nothing to comfort anyone. The adults who would punish them and beat them and never once say a kind word. Reprimands came at random it seemed, and they were cruel, and left lasting scars on all the young residents, mental and physical.

One might think that such abuse would force the children together, but it only made them cold, and detached. For Tom, the only solace to be found growing up was in talking to garden snakes - which of course, established him as a certified freak. Friends? He hadn't known the meaning of the word before Hogwarts. Filthy, miserable, damned place. Bloody muggles. They'd pay... The eleven horrible years he had spent there as a child filled his mind.

_And why was it I was sent to live in that shit-hole? Because I am a wizard,_ he reminded himself bitterly. _Because my mother was a witch and my father left her because of it. Too good for her, too good for a witch. Just abandoned her..._ In Tom's mind, it was a reflection of the entire muggle race. His experience showed only that they feared and hated wizards, forced them to live their lives in secret, told ridiculous horror stories about them, beat their inferiors, bullied their equals, and abandoned their families.

On his eleventh birthday, when he had first found out that he was a wizard, and told the whole story of his heritage and the baggage that came with it, it had been awful. He had felt sadness at the bittersweet naivete of his mother, anger at his father for hurting her, and pain at the fact that he simply hadn't been wanted. Immense shame overwhelmed him, though he hid it well, for his father had been a muggle, and therefore, he was practically a mudblood--a mudblood living in the Slytherin house.

Yet there was a noble side to his heritage as well. Through his mother's side, he was the direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin. Desperate to discover something that could give him pride and ease his insecurites, and hungry for a worthy role model, he read up as much as he could about the ancient House Founder. Slytherin was an anchor, something he could relate to and hold onto. Slytherin too had suffered at the hands of muggles; and he had done something about it. He hadn't acted with ruthless, thoughtless violence; nor had he settled for a position of luxury and acted against muggles as some sort of game that he could weasle out of at any moment. He had studied and became great, earned strong friendships and followings, and prepared to revolutionize the world, starting with Hogwarts. Of course, it was all in vain, for Slytherin's first and closest friend, Godric Gryffindor, had disagreed with Slytherin's view's and exiled him.

This part of the story frightened Tom; what would he have done if his best friend had done that to him? He decided this was Salazar's flaw--his trust in his friend. And yet, despite this bitter betrayal and dissapointment, Slytherin still had something up his sleeve... He had built the Chamber of Secrets so that his Heir could someday finish his work. This was Tom's destiny. Despite his mother's mistake of marrying his father, and his father's mistake of... of _existing,_ Tom would be the heir Salazar had dreamed of -- the messiah for the world of wizards.

This thought had driven him onward. He fell deeper and deeper into the Dark Arts, growing more and more powerful, even at his young age. Sometimes it scared him, just how much he was capable of. But it also thrilled him. He worked extremely hard in school, to prove himself, to accomplish something. There was so much to learn, so much to do. Work was a distraction; it got rid of this troublesome emotions and weaknesses. But tonight, for this moment, it was a time for reflection, for indulgence, and for just a moment he didn't care about being strong.

_He abandoned her and then she _died..._ As I entered the world, she left it forever... And he didn't care!_ His jaw clenched. _He didn't care that his wife died. Didn't care that he had a son. Just dumped me in that hell like I was nothing..._ Tom bit his lip, frustrated with himself for the tears that had formed in his eyes. _Anger_ -- that was what he needed. He clenched his teeth. _And he dared to give me his name. From this night on, I end my association with this bastard muggle. No more will I be Tom Riddle. I am Lord Voldemort!_

Shoving his fear and hurt down deep inside him, and pulling forth rage and lust for revenge, brandished his wand and waved it over the handle of the door, whispering, "Alohamora." The door swung open and he stepped silently into the house.


	2. to Forgive

Laughter could be heard in a room nearby, and the clink of silverware against dishes. Tom steadied his breathing and tried to be as quiet as he could as he walked through the living room. He slowly crossed the Oriental rug, stopping only for a moment when it creaked in the middle, then continuing.

There was a fire burning in the fireplace, and across from it, a couch beside a coffee table. Some newspapers lay on a large, comfy chair positioned in the corner, next to a radio. Portraits littered the mantelpiece. Tom stopped for just a moment, to stare briefly into an old, black-and-white photograph. There were three people, all of them dressed formally. A broad-shouldered, balding man stood proudly with an arm around his wife clad in extravagant jewelry. Tom's eyes fixed on the small boy in front of the couple, with a mop of dark hair, a small smile, and grey-blue eyes... _So that's my father. As a boy, with his family. How sweet,_ he thought, his lip curling. _Rotten, muggle pigs._ Yet he continued to stare at the picture intently for another very long moment, until finally he tore his gaze away, letting his eyes drop instead to the crackling fire. The dancing flames were reflected in his glassy eyes, and they seemed to burn.

After what seemed like ages, Tom reached the kitchen. The three people sitting there looked up suddenly from their food and stared first at the spidery white hand that appeared against the doorpost, then at the wet, bedraggled young man that emerged a moment later, framed in their doorway. The white-haired woman at the table shrieked, dropped her fork on her plate with a clatter and clutched at her husband beside her. The third person at the table rose from his seat and yelled, "What the hell are you doing in my house?!"

Tom made no answer except to toss his head back, flinging his wet hair out of his eyes. Sweat and rain mingled on his resolute face as he took a slow, threatening step forward, rolling back the sleeves of his robes.

"Get out or I'll call the police!" cried the man.

"No you won't," said Tom calmly.

"To hell I won't," muttered the man, rushing to the phone.

"Imperius!" shouted Tom, holding out his wand. The man stopped in his tracks, unable to move under his own will. "That's better," Tom smirked, releasing him again. The older couple made a sudden sound, as if they were trying to get to their feet. "Sit!" yelled Tom, and they obeyed.

"Who are you?" hissed the man, fists clenched, after a moment of taught silence.

"What, don't recognize me... Father?" asked Tom silkily, arching an elegant, black eyebrow. "Surprised to see me?" he continued, seeing the bafflement and horror spreading over his father's face. "Bet you never thought you'd see me again. Bet you thought you had gotten good and rid of me." Tom walked in closer, his voice falling to a whisper. "But I guess it's like they say... What goes around, comes around."

Tom Riddle Senior looked shocked, as his mind placed the pieces together. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, trying desperately to think of something to say. "What's that?" taunted the young man. "What were you going to say? You'd best speak up, Father!" He turned his piercing gaze upon his father's dark eyes and whispered eerily, "You're not... afraid, are you?"

He was afraid, and alarmed and confused a well. There was something in the way this dripping-wet boy looked at him that made him shiver. Yet, if he truly was his son, he shouldn't have anything to fear. Should he? "Well... Why...? What are you doing here, boy?" he managed at last, attempting to maintain some authority in the situation.

"Why are _you_ here, Father?" Tom shot back. "Didn't you have a wife to look after? And, oh yes--didn't she have a son? Why was it you left her again?" Tom asked innocently, as if genuinely curious. The man made no reply. "Hmm? Could you explain that to me, Father?"

"It's... It's complicated."

"Enlighten me."

"It didn't have anything to do with you and... and... You wouldn't understand. There's... It's..." A thin, dark eyebrow rose on the boy's face and the man began to cough. He made several attempts to get words out before finally stammering, "I--I was afraid. She... What was I supposed to do?! She was a witch! She lied to me! How could I trust her? She had no right to deceive me like that! I-"

"So you abandoned her because she was a witch." Tom interjected, his voice emotionless.

"Maybe the only reason I married her at all was because she was a witch!" he shouted. "She surely must have had me under a spell or something! I mean... Don't you see? The things she was involved in! Devil-worship and the like! Sacrificing cats to make spells! She was probably plotting to kill me and use my bones for some potion!"

"Liar!" shouted Tom, dropping his expressionless mask in an instant. "Fool! Don't speak of what you do not know, you ignorant bastard!" He paused for a moment, the expressionless mask falling back into place, as the man fell silent and compliant. Tom was outraged at the stupidity and brashness of this man who had supposedly sired him. "You will sit, Father."

"I wish you'd stop calling me that," the tired man muttered under his breath.

"What--father?" asked Tom with a hint of disgust. "Why shouldn't I call you it? It's what you are. Or are you just afraid of that too... Afraid to be called father? Ashamed?" He snorted, and smirked at the man before him, before continuing, his voice a venemous whisper. "Be afraid, muggle. Be ashamed." Tom inhaled deeply, then spoke again, his voice louder. "You will sit." The man stumbled nervously to his chair.

A tense silence followed as he sat nervously at the dining room table and watched the pale, slender boy standing before him. He had never expected to ever hear from this boy again, this reminder of another life long past. It was like seeing a ghost. "You... You look just like her, you know," he said. "It's uncanny." The boy just stared at him at first, eyes widening in disblief at his impertinence.

"How dare you talk about her so casually!" the boy bellowed. "As if none of it ever happened! As if you hadn't killed her!" Tom was screaming now, and he paused, swallowing as he bit back the tears. "And don't try and tell me you didn't kill her -- she would have lived if you had stayed with her, I know it! You weakened her! ...And then she died. Because of _you_, I have no mother." He paused for a second to catch his breath. "And now, it's your turn."

He held out his wand and whirled to the left, pointing it at his grandmother. "Avada Kedavra!"

Thomas closed his eyes to block out the sudden flash of blinding green light filling the room. Slowly, he opened his eyes to stare at his mother's limp form being weakly supported by his father. What had just happened? What was that light? The tall, blue-eyed boy--his son--was talking to him again.

"I didn't have a father either, you know. You might as well have been dead."

"No!" cried Thomas and his father at once, comprehending now what was happening, but the boy would not be stopped. A second green flash followed and the eldest Riddle froze, dropped his wife onto his lap and fell forward, smashing his head onto the fine linen tablecloth.

"What did you do to them?!" cried Tom's father.

"Nothing that should concern you too much," said Tom casually.

Inside though, he was trembling. He had just murdered his grandparents. It had been so fast, so impulsive, he had barely even felt it. _The job's not done yet!_ So he continued, not even a hint of his inner turmoil apparent to his father.

"I didn't think you were the kind of person who cared much about people dying. It didn't much matter when my mother died, now did it? Wouldn't have mattered if I had died. In fact, I'm sure you hoped I did die," said Tom, speaking rapidly, encouraged by his own words, moving closer as the man backed nervously away. "I was after all, just a pebble in your shoe, a taint to your memory, a smudge on your name. Oh, the humiliation!--a wizard for a son, good God!--what to do?!" he mocked. "Well," he continued, resuming his own tone. "I'm afraid that doesn't go one-way. _You're_ the smudge on _my_ name, you filthy muggle!" he spat. "You're the stain of my heritage which must be wiped clean and obliviated. I'll not be called a hypocrit. And we both know it's not as if you don't deserve it. You had it coming to you, and you know it. Them too," he added, gesturing to the recently dead Senior Riddles at the table. "Seeing as they raised you..."

The man just stared in horror at his long-forgotten son, not knowing what to do or say. The boy wasn't making sense, but his intent was quite clear. The fullness of his situation was finally sinking in, as he leaned his back against the wall, beaten, cornered, flustered. He glanced at the lifeless bodies of his parents nearby, then back to the strange, wild-eyed boy advancing, and terror ran through him. This was it, this is how it woud all end...

"I'm... I'm sorry," he whispered desperately, trembling, and tears began to run down his bloodless face. "My son... Please... I'm so sorry."

"So am I," said Tom whispered, almost without thought. His voice hardened. "But regret doesn't change a thing I'm afraid, and it's far too late to change anything now. It's gone too far now, there is no turning back. Don't you see that?"

This was it. He was really going to do it. He had to. Tom inhaled deeply, attempting to stop his body from trembling. Whether it was from uncertainty and fear or from the thrill of his own power was impossible to say. "Goodbye Father. Say hello to Mother for me." The man's eyes widened but before he could say or do a thing, Tom had lifted his wand loftily and uttered in barely above a whisper, "Avada kedavra."


	3. to Sink Deeper

The elder Thomas Riddle's face froze, his entire body going stiff, and he crumpled to the floor in a heap at his son's feet.

Time seemed to stand still.

Tom stood now, in the kitchen filled with the stillness and silence, save for the continuous ticking of a clock on the wall. He lowered his arm slowly, and breathed in, numb. Then he simply turned and walked wordlessly out the kitchen, through the living room, down the steps of the front door, and back to the bushes. He hadn't noticed the burning in his skin until he felt the cold rain fall comfortingly onto him, soaking into his cloak and running down his hair.

_I've done it... I got the wretched bastard... He's gone. _Tom nodded silent affirmation to himself in the darkness. The man who had abandoned him and his mother seventeen years ago had finally paid for his sins. _Nobody will ever dare call me a mudblood again. No, not after this. He's gone now. Out of my life and history forever. I wipe myself clean of Tom Riddle. He is not my father. I'm not Tom Riddle._ He trudged along in the wet grass, the hem of his cloak dripping with mud.

"I am the heir of Salazar Slytherin, son of Selena Marvolo," he continued aloud, whispering the words like a mantra, willing himself to believe them for they were all he had or knew. "Come to continue his legacy and fulfill his glorious plan and cleanse the Earth of this plague of muggles who have cast us worthier beings into hiding. I'm not Tom Marvolo Riddle; I'm Lord Voldemort. I AM LORD VOLDEMORT!" he cried into the night, falling to his knees and turning his face up into the night sky as the rain fell, hiding the tears that poured from his closed eyelids.

His declaration was met with silence, other than the quiet patter of rain on the soft ground. Tom gasped for air and pushed himself up, and forced himself to smile. He never let himself feel the sadness, not for long, and he never allowed himself to cry. It was weakness, and he loathed it. But he had always used it to his advantage; it was convenient in a way. He used his pain to fuel his anger; the anger helped him reach his goals and the goals were all that mattered. Only achieving the goals would bring him satisfaction, justice... happiness.

And yet... It somehow always seemed a hollow victory. It was as if he could never be truly satisfied. It was never enough. Something deep within him thirsted desperately, but for what? Even now, with this long-awaited vengeance finally fulfilled, it seemed odd now that the thing was finally done. He had got what he wanted, and yet now that he had it... It seemed he still wasn't happy. It wasn't what he needed. Perhaps his goals were going in completely the wrong direction, and they only made him more unhappy. There always something missing... Always something off in his eyes... Always something twisted in his smile.

Tom shook his head, clearing his thoughts, drawing a hand over his pale, wet face. _You're thinking too much. Don't think so much. It'll work out, I just have to be patient. You'll be happy in the end. Just wait, Tom. Just wait till you've got the whole world at your feet, and they'll all worship you. I'll have it all. I'll be the most powerful wizard in history. No, not only in history. I won't just be remembered--who could I possibly trust to take my place when I'm gone? No, no, I will endure. Somehow, I'll do it. I'm going to live forever._

And then he laughed. He forced himself to push the laugh out, he searched his entire being for some speck of joy but there was none, and his laughter was empty and mocking even of himself. But it didn't matter. Nothing did now... Nothing seemed real. In fact, all of a sudden everything appeared absolutely absurd and hysterical. It was as if life was one big joke somebody had decided to play on the world and no one got it but him. They all ran around all day, worrying about this and that, and for what? He wasn't like them. He could do anything.

The world was spinning and Tom was vaguely aware that he was on the ground again, but what did he care? He laughed again--a high, quiet, disconcerting laugh. There were no rules anymore, no limitations; he could do anything. And this would only be the first step. He had committed his first murder in cold blood. He had crossed the line, and there was no turning back now.


End file.
